


Batman Has Fake Abs

by piades



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DC Animated Universe
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Body Image, Humor, M/M, ambiguous attraction, no profreading we die like mne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 19:23:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15031556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piades/pseuds/piades
Summary: Batman wears armour. The material provides protection, and the shape intimidates his opponents.Clark Kent does not wear armour. Bruce notices.





	Batman Has Fake Abs

By the time Bruce meets them in person, the Justice League has been courting Batman for a good six months. They’ve spoken over various communication devices — some video but most audio-only — enough times for Bruce to have examined all of his supposed new teammates' strengths and weaknesses.

 

He’s gotten a distant look of their body armor and tech. He already knows Diana’s lack of armor makes him twitch and he wants to take Arthur’s apart if the Atlantean will let him. Clark’s about his size, and his clothing material looks like like something cobbled-together out of Green Arrow’s scrap heap and Bruce wants to have words with them both.

 

Flash, though — Flash is probably actually wearing spandex and a small part of Bruce wants to tranq him just to show that that is a very real danger when you’re wearing cyclist gear.

 

In order to do that, he’ll have to meet the man in person.

 

He needs a closer look at all of them, so the next time they pester him — something about escaped experiments and a lab not far from Gotham — he checks every sensor he can fit into his suit is in perfect condition and sets about doing his research.

 

The real recon will start once he hits the lab.

 

* * *

 

The experiments are bizarre. They’re a strange combination of some kind of simple organism and technology. Bruce can’t figure out what, exactly, they’re for in the small amount of time he has to prod the ‘net before making his way out of Gotham, and that makes him leery and nervous.

 

He’s never gone in quite this blind before.

 

The facility is a simple, large rectangular building off a highway in scrub country. It’s all dry ground and wiry little bushes, and the building pops up like a sore thumb. The lack of cover is horrible. Already, there’s a couple of vehicles in the parking lot.

 

Bruce can identify Hawkwoman, Superman and Flash.

 

As it turns out, the facility has been using testing and developing tech from the Justice League’s alien allies — the Martians — and some of it has gone missing. At that point, it becomes clear that the Justice League wants a detective on this case and that’s why they’ve asked him out here.

 

It’s harder than it should be to find the who and the how. Bruce is used to Gothamites, and Gothamites seem to have a certain way of thinking that is missing here. He’s challenged in new ways and by the time he and Superman are trying to pile crazed techno-ameboas into a truck, he finds he feels… energized.

 

As he works, he watches his allies carefully. He watches Flash’s reaction times, he watches—

 

As Superman — Clark Kent — is holding an inventory in his left hand and reaches across his body for a drink that an incredibly relieved lab assistant offers him. His left obliques contract and shorten, becoming little vallys along his ribs as, beneath the bright blue fabric, the muscles covering his right ribs extend into a nearly-flat plane that reveals the ridge of his latissimus dorsi as the large sheet of muscle disappears into the strong diamond of connective tissue at the base of his spine.

 

Bruce very nearly startles.

 

Now that he isn’t worried about mechanical amoeba, the fact that Superman’s muscular structure is on display in vivid detail hits him like a brick.

 

That can’t be healthy. There comes a point, when a person is slimming down, that the softness covering their body isn’t so much fat but water. At that point, it’s time to stop. Clark Kent seems far past that person. He drinks greedily from the glass that the lab coat brought him, and Bruce suggests to her to get him another.

 

“I don’t need armor,” Clark says with a shrug. “Kryptonian invulnerability.”

 

His data is incomplete. He requires more data. He joins the Justice League, and he starts leaving water bottles in Clark’s locker.

 

With his new resources comes new information. In the cave, he determines that yes, Flash wears spandex. What’s more, Superman wears spandex and cotton — the sort of stuff you find in cheap jeans, only infinitely thinner. Bruce is unimpressed.

 

He stands up from his desk and peels himself out of the thick, heavy armor and puts it to wash. As he does, he catches sight of his reflection in the mirrored, plastic surface of the suit’s case.

 

He looses a couple of inches without the armor. His abdomen is nearly flat — he can see the shape of his abdominal muscles clearly, but not their separation. Next to Superman, he looks downright flabby.

 

He’d had a spark of pride before all this — thinking that he was keeping even the Man of Steel. There’s no shame in his own body — it does what he needs it to. He can move as fast and silent and hit hard as he needs. He’s fine.

 

The fact that the suit exaggerates his musculature isn’t mere vanity. It’s an intimidation tactic.

 

A snort breaks him out of his thoughts. He turns to see his protege and ex-protege standing in the doorway. Dick is smirking, about to burst into laughter. Jason looks confused and disturbed.

 

“Aren’t you two supposed to be upstairs?” he asks.

 

“Aww, Bruce!” Dick says, his tone half-triumphant and half-teasing. “I think you’re perfect just the way you are.”

 

It goes slightly lopsided, and in a loud whisper, he hisses: “Go get’em tiger!”

 

Jason makes an embarrassed squeal. “Oh my god I am not listening to this,” he wails.

 

“Nor am I,” Bruce snaps, and thrusts the dripping batsuit onto its rack. “Out of here, both of you!”

 

They scram. Dick is laughing. Jason’s tread is heavy as he prioritizes speed over a stealthy getaway. They cackle and thump their way upstairs.

 

He can just make out Jason’s voice: “Is he really that vain?”

 

Children.

 

* * *

 

Things in Gotham are quieting down, so Bruce figures he’s ok spend more time prodding the Justice League and their new Martian allies for technology and information.

 

The bottles of water and sports drink that he’s been putting in Clark’s locker are collecting themselves there, none have been drank, so Bruce decides to step it up.

 

While Clark and Diana are talking by themselves at a large desk, Bruce puts a bottle of water down next to him. He gives Diana an assessing once-over too, just to make sure her choice of company hasn’t resulted in any unhealthy relationships with liquids. He can’t tell — but her musculature is not so nakedly defined as Clark’s. But it’s harder to tell with women.

 

He narrows his eyes at Clark. Clark quirks an eyebrow at him, and takes a sip.

 

* * *

 

Clark has no idea what Batman’s problem is.

 

It started when his locker at the Hall of Justice started sprouting water bottles. It continued with them appearing on his desk. Then Batman started putting them in front of him and glaring at him until he drank them. Water bottles turned into sports drinks which turned into fish and chips.

 

Batman, Clark discovered, had a rather alarming affinity for salty foods and soft drinks. The Justice League was beginning to associate the Dark Knight with the smell of deep-fried potato and batter.

 

Clark did his best to remain polite. He ate the food in front of him, because his mother raised him to be polite, but he was getting very, very close to dragging Batman out to his parents’ farm and teaching him what real food was. The poor man was desperately deprived.

 

He was also looking like at Clark a bit like an experiment that was refusing to proceed as planned.

 

* * *

 

Bruce was at his wits’ end. Increasing the intake of salt was supposed to aid in increasing the absorption of water.

 

But Clark was an alien — perhaps Kryptonian physiology was different? Perhaps some other chemical mix was required to assist him in maintaining weight?

 

Bruce found a doohickey for measuring perspiration and went after Clark.

 

* * *

 

“No,” Clark said, when Batman approached him with something small that whined with an electronic buzz that was probably audible to him alone. He done with being treated like a lab rat.

 

Batman looked between the empty packet of chips on the table before them, and back to Clark. It looked like he was pointing out that he’d provided Clark with a bribe — could he cooperate?

 

“Your taste in food is horrible,” Clark says.

 

The room goes quiet. There’s a pregnant pause as everyone looks at Batman to see how he’ll respond.

 

Batman’s lips thin.

 

Clark hurries on. “Let me just — come to my parents’ place.”

 

And that’s how Clark found himself with Batman, in full costume, on the Kent farm, being watched like a hawk as Mrs. Kent prodded his sides and piled his plate high.

 

“This one,” she waved to Clark with a serving spoon, “Is just utterly incapable of putting on anything that’s not muscle. I spent his teenage years terrified he was going to slip through the floor boards.”

 

“Mom,” Clark protested. Gosh, why had he thought it was a good idea to introduce his parents?

 

“I can imagine,” Batman responded. Was that a gleeful note in his voice. “Are you sure he’s not dehydrated?”

 

“Oh for—” Clark cut himself off. He’d been over this a thousand times, at least nine-hundred with his overbearing parents. “No, I am not.”

 

He held up his hand, pinched the skin of the back of it, and released it. It snapped back against his hand — elastic and hydrated.

 

Batman narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps it’s all the salty foods I’ve been feeding you.”

 

Clark’s mother laughed. “Is that what you’ve been after? No, the doctors checked.”

 

She patted Batman’s shoulder. “I’m glad you have such good friends, Clark.”

 

Batman grumbled, and dug the salad tongs into the potato salad.

 

(It was better than fish and chips, after all.)

**Author's Note:**

> So, because I didn't find anywhere to sneak it in, let me just say this line: Bruce Wayne has no idea if he want's Clark's body, or if he wants... Clark's body. :P
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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